Present Tense
by Sunshine Samich
Summary: Logan guessed it was pure coincidence he met a girl who could see the past. Her future telling brother knew better. The X-Men and Brotherhood clash with two very different extremes on their sides. Post X2 with no Last Stand rubbish.
1. 1990

**I'd like to start with the most necessary of all disclaimers; I own nothing at all of X-Men, and I barely own my own characters. =P**

**And a quick note about the setting: A half year AFTER X2. No Last Stand rubbish.**

* * *

April 23, 1990

It was dusk and it was time. The omnipresent scent of rain clung in the air, heavy and claustrophobic as always. Blick and October began their dusk-time stroll down Carnation Lane, briefly trading the confinement of their prison for the desolation and silence of The Valley. As they walked side by side, hand in hand, their eyes never touched the houses they passed. No one had ever walked through the gates at the end of the lane after their own arrival five years ago.

Since then, their walks had degraded from hope of finding another porch light on to a mere ritual. As they turned back at the gates to complete the ceremony, a shock of fear like none other since the day she was captured by The Valley shook October's very core. The overwhelming panic sent October to her knees, her face colliding with the cold, slick pavement. As her hand slipped from her brother's, the immediate terror quickly subsided into a gnawing nervousness that accompanied the dull throb on the side of her skull.

"Blick," October moaned, the sight of blood pooling around her face bringing her injury into realization. Her brother did not answer, but slowly, too slowly, shifted down into a crouch in front of her, his gaze meeting hers with an animation October had not witnessed since their detainment. This sight sent alarms ringing in her head, beckoning the blackness that threatened her consciousness to come closer.

"Please…" As October fell into the dark cavern, cars with flashing lights roared past her, school children with needles ran to catch her, and Blick's never before heard laughter chased her with them.

* * *

April 24, 1990

October awoke in short gasps. The dim light threading through the blinds hinted that it was midmorning. The rusty smell of blood invading her nostrils helped her fingers locate the wound on her scalp. And the smile on Blick's face confirmed the worst.

He sat cross-legged in a chair across from October's bed, his hands folded on his knees, his eyes alive with something sinister. "Good morning my baby sister," He cooed from his perch.

October racked her brain desperately for some evidence that would suggest that last night was not real. Her thoughts floundered with the same reminder, _his eye is never wrong_.

"My dear sister, are you alright?" Blick's head cocked to the side, his smile never quavering, only obscured by his chin-length hair falling across his face.

"You were laughing about something," October curled her knees to her chest, wrapping herself helplessly in her blanket. It was all she had in her to stay awake as her injury fought to gain control again.

"That must have been a very nice dream, sister," Blick straightened in his chair. "You know that's never happened." His lips curled farther back, exposing his yellowed teeth. October was losing poorly and quickly.

"Blick, you were laughing, tell me what's going to happen!" October held herself tightly, the apprehension rising to the urgency of what it was the night before.

"Why? You already know. Well, in part I suppose." Blick stood, and with deliberate tardiness, walked to the basin of fresh water on October's night stand. Even more sluggishly, he dipped a cloth into the cool water and positioned it to the right side of October's trembling and oozing head.

"Do you remember when you were five and I was seven? Do you remember the first time I told you?" Blick's tone changed to take on an undercurrent of disgust, as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. He finished with the bloodied washcloth, dropping it into the basin. He turned from October who only stared in terrific numbness. The barrier of her arms fell and her legs folded awkwardly around her.

With a dramatic spin, Blick faced his sister, recomposed and wearing a more horrifying smile than before. "June eighth, 2012, little sister."

October swooned and entered the dark cavern once more.

* * *

Dusk

Against all her will, October's legs proceeded with the march. Right and then left, they shuffled alongside her brother, his smile in perfect preservation, his hands carefully stowed in his pockets. Was this the reason they had practiced the same walk for five years? So that it would become so mechanical October couldn't stop?

_Help me_.

"I believe we'll finally find someone at the gate this time, sister. I'll bet you a cent." Blick strode faster now, his grin widening, his hands pulling out of his pockets. October saw the very slim chance and took it.

Lunging forward, she yanked Blick's wrist. In the same instant, Blick's free hand circled around to slam against October's tender wound, fresh blood spewing under the gauze. October dropped his hand and stumbled back, but she had already seen down the road.

"Who is that?" She thundered loudly, surprised at the cheap shot Blick had taken. The increasing ache in her head only intensified her sour shock.

"I don't know what his name is, but he's somehow managed to lower the block The Valley had on my eye. He can help us get out of here and that's all that matters." Blick spat, returning his hands deep into his trouser pockets.

"Blick, you don't know what he wants!" The stupidity of all her brother's actions, past and present, fueled a fire October had never felt. The flames leaped and danced in her brain, strengthening the pain to an abnormal degree.

"I've seen what he wants, and I completely agree. He will help me achieve _that _day, little sister. And after that day, I will..." Blick had already begun to walk in the gate's path, but the sight of his sister's condition halted him.

October was doubled over, her palms grabbing fistfuls of hair, her nails scratching at her gash, loud and agonizing groans ripping through her throat. "Blick," She mustered in between shrieks, "don't leave me."

Against his better judgment, Blick lifted his foot in the opposite direction.

* * *

February 11, 2012

Jean's death felt more like a tear widening than the initial cut. This only increased the bitterness of Logan's amnesia and left him with a seemingly permanent impatience towards the Professor. Waiting outside Cerebro for debriefing on a mission felt humiliating.

More than the anguish of knowing he had experienced a previous loss and was unable to recall who, Logan continually amazed himself with his inhuman way of moving on. While Scott still cut classes and visited Alkali Lake months afterwards, Jean was randomly slipping out of Logan's conscience. Nights that were once occupied by her face alone now gave way to old, more baleful nightmares.

"Logan," The Professor called in the Wolverine's head, snapping him out of his brood. Feeling self-conscious, he tried to think of something insulting as he stormed through the automatic doors.

"Yeah?" Logan kept the length of the walkway as his distance with the Professor.

"Many years ago, there was a young mutant girl who cried out so strongly, I heard her without Cerebro. Since Cerebro was built, I've searched for her, but to no avail," Professor Xavier removed Cerebro from his bare head, gently lowering it to its cradle. He wheeled his chair around to face Logan, beaming. "Today, I've found her."

Logan said nothing and waited for the old man to finish. The sooner he gave the history lesson, the sooner Logan could cut a deal with the Professor to look through his memories after the job.

"Do you know why I am sending you alone, Logan?" Was he trying to waste time with unimportant questions?

Logan shrugged. "I work better alone."

"From what I've gathered, this girl has a talent that might interest you," The Professor gave Logan a wink as he sailed through the automatic doors. Swearing, Logan followed.

"Because of her ability, I've sent you alone. If you drive the speed limit, it should take you an hour and a half to come back from Manhattan. That should be more than enough time to…break the ice." The Professor grinned as Logan fumed.

"Is this a blind date or something? She'd better have big j-."

"Anything this girl touches, Logan," The Professor interrupted, "she can see its past," The Professor's face grew lined with seriousness. "We need her, Logan."

The Wolverine deliberated. "Alright. Where is she?"

The Professor put on a grin once more. "She tends a bar called Kenny's Castaways on Bleecker Street between Thompson and Sullivan. Her shift is over in twenty minutes, but if you leave now, I'm sure you can catch her."

* * *

**If you're reading this, that means I love you dearly! :D Thanks for your time and consideration in reading my first fic (on this account xD).**

**Originally, I hadn't yet planned to introduce Xavier and Logan until chapter two. However, to reassure my readers that this fanfiction actually does have something to do with X-Men and not my OC's, I've added to the first chapter. =P**

**The next chapter may be delayed up to a week, so peaze don't bug me about it. =P**

**-Sincerely, Sunshine Samich.**


	2. Mental Shatter

****

**Disclaimers; I don't own X-Men as much as I fantasize that I do.**

**I also don't own, and have never been inside Kenny's Castaways, that is a real bar located in Manhattan, so I apologize for any butchering I've done to the establishment in this chapter.**

* * *

Between the blaring, whiney rock music and the obdurate customer in front of the register, Mercy continually reminded herself that killing Steven would only result in extra mopping.

"Your card is invalid, why don't you and your buddies round up some cash?" Mercy shouted over the strident live performance, handing the doubtlessly stolen Visa back to the man.

The disgruntled greaser stalked away to the opposite corner of the stage where seven other dubious men had pushed three tables together and had collectively littered them with mugs and bottles. The apparent ringleader of the group eyed Mercy with contemptuous disbelief once his disciple returned to the tables empty handed. Mercy ignored their chary stares and headed through a door marked 'Management' at the end of the gantry. Inside Steven's office, the cacophony of the live band quieted to an incessant hum that softly shook the filing cabinets and picture frames.

"This is the fifth hour of overtime, Steven," Mercy carped as she swiped her time card on the reader that sat on his desk.

"Lauren quit and a flaming bartender and crappy cover bands aren't going to boost clientele. Just put on that pretty smile and take some extra pay until we can find another cute girl," Steven grunted as he entered long receipt lists on a prehistoric computer. "Besides, those stupid punk bands always bring in some rowdy fans."

Mercy felt another migraine begin to take form, and the indignation spurred a bold question. "If you don't like Chris, why did you hire him?"

Steven instantly ceased typing and jerked his head upward, glowering at Mercy. "I hired him because the only other applicant was one those mutant _freaks_." He spat acerbically.

Mercy said a quick goodbye and hastily exited Steven's office before he could see the smirk she couldn't stifle. Though her headache amplified once in the midst of the bar, the pure irony of Chris' employment was uproarious. As if on cue, the epicene, telepathic Christophe himself laughed aloud while pouring a pale lager at the gantry. Catching Mercy's gaze, he tossed his head, motioning for her to come over.

"So you finally asked him, huh? You could have asked me," Chris winked as he topped the glass off, gently pushing it to Mercy. "This is for Adonis in the back next to the sleazes'. Why don't you deliver it to him?"

Mercy scoffed and stepped back. "I just clocked out and I want to go home, Chris. Is he not gay?"

Chris melodramatically shook his head and darted his eyes to the back of the bar. "He's been waiting on you, girl,"

Mercy rolled her eyes and snatched the amber glass. Delicately walking around the bar counter, she tried to inconspicuously search for this supposedly divine beauty. Disregarding the seven ruffians, she spotted a rugged face she hadn't seen before clocking out in Steven's office. For once, Chris wasn't exaggerating.

He was deviant and attractive, shrouded in an unsettling curiosity that was absolutely irresistible. His bedraggled hair and beard sported a rough edge, his smirk enticingly cocky. His left eyebrow rose and then dipped, creating the perfect arch to frame his intense eyes that Mercy suddenly realized where upon her. Unthinkingly, Mercy swept her platinum blonde and mud brown hair over her shoulder, flashing her teeth in a blushing smile.

"Bock?" She gently placed the still fizzing glass at his loose fist on the raised bar table. He nodded as he brought the glass to his lips, tossed his head back, and drained the liquid. "In a hurry?" Mercy asked amusedly, and against her escalating headache, she slid onto a stool and leaned in, propping her chin on her palm, her fingers creeping to her left temple to gingerly massage the throbbing.

The fetching man hunched in, his worn leather jacket stretching around his broad shoulders. "I was hoping we could leave now,"

Bemused, Mercy opened her mouth to question him when a sudden squeeze on her shoulder whipped her around to face the agitator from the thuggish group of seven. He was the gang leader Mercy had seen before, and he produced a nose-wrinkling smell; from alcohol or sweat, Mercy couldn't tell. Irritation flushed her cheeks and the pain in her head rumbled and brewed.

"Hey beautiful, do me a favor and charge this card so my boys can bounce," Again, Mercy was handed the Visa.

"I'm sorry sir, but I can't," Mercy's voice strained to remain pleasant, though her cocked eyebrow and tight grin spoke for her annoyance. "There's a hold on the card."

The raw ache in Mercy's brain threatened to snap when her long hair was yanked. In a matter of seconds, Mercy was viewing the world at a sideways angle and faintly regretting not doing a better job at wiping the tables. The music from the stage ungracefully halted. There was a chorus of clanging as mugs and bottles dropped to the tables and floor. Hot, repulsive breath blew in Mercy's ear.

"I don't like no for an answer."

A slimy hand crushed her face to the wood and another kept its clench on her hair. A stench that even the dumpster outside the bar couldn't match emitted from the thick lubricant that coated the man's hand and dripped down Mercy's face. Mercy felt the glue-like substance begin to heat to a scorch, and she released a weak cry as her tresses began to sear.

As quickly as it started, the fire was temporarily relieved by an abrupt, peculiar sound. From her firmed position, Mercy could just see them. They might have been called blades had they not protruded from flesh, but as it was, the three knife-like utensils were attached to a fist and dangerously pointed upwards.

"I'm not sure what you're wiping with those hands of yours, but if you want both of them, back off." Adonis?

Mercy's migraine pulsated.

Glass projected everywhere. Mercy pinched her eyes shut as the shards flew and showered the bar in glittering panic. Shrieks and shouts accompanied the tinkling of each piece. The sludge hands agonizingly pried themselves off Mercy's face, instantly dropping her temperature. Her legs wobbled as she regained equilibrium in her feet and brain, but a tug on her elbow lurched her backwards.

Adonis was dragging her through the catastrophe of Kenny's Castaways. Bewildered and exhausted, Mercy gave no resistance. Before being carted through the once stained-glass threshold, Mercy spotted a gaping and dumfounded Steven.

"I quit!" Mercy called and departed behind Adonis into the cool night.

* * *

**For those who might be confused about the allusion used for Logan, Adonis was a figure in Greek mythology noted for his exceptional beauty. **

**So I rewrote this chapter seven times, four of which were totally different. I'm still not entirely happy with the end result, but oh, such is the pain of writing. Dx**

**I promise any and all skeptical readers that this fanfiction is _not_ OC-centered. Slightly AU, but keep reading and it'll all tie in. =P**

**Hopefully, I'll redeem myself with chapter three, which may take about a week to upload.**

**Special thanks to ****AshleyCartwright****, ****Shakespeare-is-Love****, ****volleyball7605****, ****HLBabi****, ****pinup-gurl09****, and ****Serpient**** for various forms of fanfiction love. :3**

**And thanks to everyone who is reading this for your time and consideration!**

**Love, Sunshine Samich**


	3. Recurrent Tragedies

**Sunshine Samich declaims any ownership of X-Men, Marvel, or Manhattan, New York.**

* * *

Logan cursed his way down wide-awake Bleecker Street. He had to stop picking up mutant-chicks at bars. People scattered and clustered outside Kenny's. Screams and sirens harmonized. Taxis swarmed the lanes and lunged towards the curbs. In the frenzy, Logan and his mission were undetected by the many frantic eyes. Logan continued his censure as he swiftly turned onto Sullivan Street, effortlessly towing his assignment behind him.

Logan cursed Xavier, and he cursed Xavier's mutant. He cursed the slimy man in the bar. He cursed the night. Before he could curse himself, Logan felt resistance to his consistent pace. Xavier's mutant seemed to have regained coherency as she gasped for air and stomped to a halt. Grudgingly, Logan twisted to face her irate bewilderment.

"What was _that?_" She panted demandingly. At the instant Logan loosened his grip on her elbow, she snatched it back to her side, her opposite arm wiping the sweat and pain off her face. A handprint visibly blazed from her forehead to her chin, and her listless hair hung unevenly. Behind her on Bleecker Street, reds and blues splashed onto buildings and spilled into Sullivan, announcing the arrival of New York's Finest.

Exigency knocked at Logan's instincts. "We need to go," He stepped forward to take hold of the girl's arm once more, this time gently pulling her shoulder. When revulsion marred her face, Logan took her thin frame in both his hands and rounded her, utilizing his height for coercion. "I should be asking _you_ what that was. I don't really care what it was, but we'll both be explaining to the cops if we don't get out of here."

Brows puckered and lips pouting, the mutant-girl defiantly threw Logan's hands off her shoulders but sighed in defeat. "Can you get me another job?"

"You already have one," Logan quickly walked down the street towards the courtesy of the Institute.

A silver Honda NSX was magnificently illuminated by street lamps and glowing from the moonlight. As he stepped into the street to reach driver's side, Logan smirked at the girl's awed face. "Too dull for you?" He cranked the car and it bellowed to life. The passenger door was shut with particular force as Logan peeled off the curb and down to the intersection.

The quiet was bearable, but the alacrity was not. Mentally condemned to drive the speed limit, as he hit West Houston Street, Logan uncharacteristically attempted to converse.

"What's your name?" He began flatly, settling the speedometer at twenty, twenty-five, thirty over.

"Mercy," She answered just as even. Mercy kept her face to the window, wearisomely trying to ignore the headache that was reforming again.

"Why haven't you asked where I'm taking you?" Logan inquired with valid curiosity as he turned right onto West Street. There was a long silence as they flew by the Bay, and Logan could hear Mercy's debate churning in her mind.

"I was leaving anyway," She responded suddenly. Logan shrugged. The fact that either individual had no earnest interest in getting to know the other brought the conversation to a standstill. The speedometer inclined.

"Why do call yourself Mercy?" From his peripherals, Logan saw Mercy snap in his direction, and a second later his skull felt like a cracked egg. It took his strength to keep the car steady, his knuckles turning white around the steering wheel, his vision slits through squeezed eyes.

"Why are you asking so many questions?" Mercy sneered with smug satisfaction.

"That's real cute," Logan grunted as his head abruptly contracted back to size. The speedometer jumped back to eighty. "The Professor told me you could see the past, but he didn't mention you could induce aneurysms."

Mercy incredulously gaped at the man driving her away from Manhattan at ninety miles an hour. A motorcade of questions galloped through her mind. With renewed anxiety, her headache reached a higher level of misery. But against every fiber in her that told her to get away, trounce, exhaustion, and indifference overcame Mercy. She averted her stare to the windshield.

"Okay, where _are_ we going?" She knew there was no point in asking if she could go home.

"Ever heard of Xavier's Institute for Higher Learning?" Logan sensed her surrender and lowered the needle just below eighty five as they neared Lincoln Tunnel.

"I thought it was the School for Gifted Youngsters," Mercy laid her face on the cool glass of the passenger window. "I got a call from Xavier when I was seventeen." She explained to Logan's surprise.

Silence pursued the next twenty miles. The car's stereo irritably reported it was only one thirty in the morning. Logan wasn't expected to enter the garage until at least two by pain of a lecture from Xavier. He mused if he would even be allowed entrance into the Mansion until he made headway with Mercy.

While Logan fluctuated between velocities that would earn him a ticket and those that were criminal misdemeanors, Mercy mulled over her own predicament. Escape did not cross Mercy's mind as much as the metal claws did. That was a deadly tangle if nothing else. So Mercy got as comfortable as her throbbing head allowed and sulked.

"Why did he send for me now? I'm not much of youngster anymore." Logan glanced over to notice for the first time that Mercy really wasn't a girl. Unwrinkled but worn, her face and all its expressions demonstrated late-twenties experience. If the handprint was to heal, some of her attractiveness might be regained.

Logan refocused to the road. "The old man probably has some things in mind for you. And he's pretty good at finding a catch to make you stay,"

"What does he have for you?" The question immediately caused Jean's image to infiltrate Logan's mind. He vaguely considered his lost memories to be a part of his decision to stay at the Institute.

"A few things," Logan said nothing more and Mercy didn't pry. The last fifteen miles were driven in hush and in less than ten minutes.

* * *

At one forty-five Logan pulled into the garage below the basketball court of the school. Logan was sure Xavier was feeding information off his brain already, so he tried to keep his thoughts offensive.

"What a collection," Mercy whistled as Logan walked her through the myriad rows of vehicles towards the elevator. Onboard, Logan punched the only floor option available.

As the elevator racketed promptly upwards, Mercy turned to Logan, her blue eyes alight with a perplexed hurriedness. "Was it worth it? Have you gotten what you stayed here for?"

A high-pitched beep declared the end of the elevator's journey. Logan quickly stepped off, pointing a finger to the right corridor. "It's the door at the end."

Nauseated, Logan walked to his room where a dam of water imbibed Jean again and again.

* * *

**I don't have much to say, because if I go off on a tangent, I could quite possibly spoil the entire fic. Dx **

**Thanks be to** **Serpient**** and volleyball7605 for the consistent reviewing! It takes the pressure off. ^_^;**

**Thank you to all of you who're silent readers too! I appreciate your thoughtfulness to read my writings. :)**

**You can pretty much beat that each chapter will take about a week. Sorry, I'm just a perfectionist. =P**

**Love and blessings,**

**Sunshine Samich**


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